Marcus ran three red lights the night I totaled my Civic on I-70. He lives two exits from my apartment. That night, he lived in Philadelphia. He got the call at 11:47 p.m. from a stranger borrowing my phone, and he drove eleven hours without sleeping because he'd convinced himself the paramedics had lied about me being fine. That's who he is. He's the guy who believes the paramedics are lying. I met Marcus freshman year at orientation. He was wearing the kind of sandals you wear once and then throw out. He told me, with complete seriousness, that he wanted to be a marine biologist, a rock climber, and if those didn't work, a history teacher. He's now an accountant — which tells you something about how much life can flatten a man. But it hasn't flattened him. That's the thing. He's still the guy who thinks the paramedics are lying. When Marcus first told me about Priya, he said "I met someone." He said it like it had already happened to him. Like he'd been drafted. He sent me a photo of her three weeks later. I asked what she was like. He said, "She laughs at the parts I don't mean to be funny." I don't know if Priya knows this, but that's the sentence I knew he was going to marry her. Here's the thing about Priya. Marcus used to wear hiking boots to nice restaurants. For years. Years. I once watched a hostess look at his feet and quietly die inside. Priya got him into loafers in under four months. I have tried, at various points in our friendship, to speak to him about footwear. I have failed. Priya succeeded. That's not the impressive part. The impressive part is that when Marcus's dad got sick last year, Priya was at the hospital every single day. Not some days. Every day. She'd never met him before the diagnosis. She went anyway. She brought the crossword. She brought the terrible coffee he liked. She sat with Marcus when Marcus couldn't talk. That's not a girlfriend. That's a person who has decided. Marcus, I've known you for fourteen years. I've watched you be funny, stubborn, loyal, impossible, and occasionally correct about things. Priya — you married a man who would drive eleven hours for you. You already know. I'm just making it official for the room. So. Before we eat the chicken. If you want advice: keep surprising each other. Marcus, if Priya asks what you're thinking, tell her the real thing, not the easier thing. If you want a blessing: may your worst problem this year be which couch to buy. And if you want a toast — please raise your glasses. To Marcus, who drove eleven hours. To Priya, who would have driven twelve. May the rest of your life feel exactly that reckless, and exactly that sure. To Marcus and Priya.